Cinnamon
by Marissalyn
Summary: Lexa is having a bad day and goes to get some coffee. It's a good thing the barista knows just how to cheer her up.


Today sucked. This entire week had been filled with unnecessary dilemma, at work and at home. Your work, you used to enjoy it. Your home was your home; of course you had liked it too. You used to willingly up until three years ago when it had been emptied out. Everything that was once hers now belonged to either her family or local thrift stores now. You hid the hoodie though; it still smelled like her on the worst nights. You would curl up while wearing it, burying your nose in the neckline and tucking your hands into the too-long sleeves.

Costia had always been taller than you, broader than you, stronger and more mature than you. In the end you supposed that had been your downfall. If it hadn't been for knowing her your entire life, the two of you wouldn't have lasted the first month, let alone the five years you had with one another. Costia had ended up being your moon and stars, just like you had been her night sky.

Life was funny like that; much like old stories from ancient's past, life just had a way of repeating itself.

You had lost the first loves of your life in your first two years on this pollution-riddled earth. Your mother died in childbirth, the first murder you would commit and would carry with you to the grave. Your father followed just two years later while at war over seas.

You never got to know him like everyone else did, so you didn't understand why when people found out you were his daughter, they told you he would have been lucky to see you grow up, as if he had never seen a flower bloom in May. This also meant you only half listened to the stories told about your parents during the holidays. You didn't like to dwell, dead parents and orphaned or not. You were too young to remember and inevitably forgot just like no one had expected you to. As if you'd remember something over twenty years ago now.

You supposed Costia would turn out the same. All of your memories with her were already blurring together. Specifics like months and seasons all bleeding together to turn what was once a beautiful color spectrum into a mass of color no one, not even you would be able to differentiate from.

You were once able to map out her entire body with your fingertips, naming parts of her body for you both to giggle at later in the throe of passion when you would bump her elbow and mutter, "Sorry about that, Albert." When she realized what you had done, she decided to name parts of you as well, flipping you over to paint each limb with her lips and saying she was leaving behind even brighter stars than the one she was leaving them on. She chose poetic names, ones that actually meant something past the comedic stance.

She had always been the better one. Out of the two of you, she was the one that made friends with everyone. She remembered names and was kind hearted. She was going to be a doctor. She wanted to save everyone, like she had save you.

Costia had potential, and she died within seconds at the hands of a drunken idiot she was trying to help out of a bar and into a cab. Everything she had worked for- working on her doctorate for eight years, staying up late every night studying with a calm head on her shoulders for some of the most stressful tests of her life. Twenty-five years old and dead before reaching the emergency room. She was so young and intuitive, hands capable of so much love and practiced routine to save lives.

Costia was full of so much life, so bright in your dark life. She had been your lighthouse. Twenty-five years old and it was lights out on a stretcher that's been designed for this exact reason.

Your lighthouse was now gone to leave you stranded out at sea, a sea of blue that might as well be red with the invisible blood on your hands. You murdered her because you didn't say, "I love you" after your fight that morning. She died knowing what you sounded like with hatred inflected in your voice. You'd like to think that it had nothing to do with your fight because a drunken 234-pound man pushing her had nothing to do with you. You had nothing to do with the fatal wound Costia received when her head hit the concrete, her blood and hair spilled out next to cigarette butts and chewed up gum.

You wished that of all things you could forget, it would be the image of Costia's dark skin paled from the exposure of death's door. You had to claim her body; you wish you hadn't. The fight you had was stupid; it was about how she wasn't ever home. You wanted her to sleep; you didn't mean it like this. Your ideal place for her to rest was in your arms, not in the vase on your nightstand. You still kissed her at night, but instead of warm flesh it was cold marble. How envious of the vase you were. But this all happened three years ago, you were now twenty-five yourself and you were having a horrible week.

On your worst days you couldn't even see the point of getting out of bed. You wouldn't shower, you wouldn't eat, and you would barely even roll over. It was your way of punishing yourself, or at least that's what your therapist said. You'd say it's how you chose to cope.

Today was bad, but it wasn't as bad as yesterday, so you decided it'd be a good idea to go running and grab a coffee on your way back. You always got coffee, and it was always the same barista, and you always got cinnamon when you were feeling like ripping your own heart out and stomping on it. It would honestly hurt less than the hell you were endlessly in. A free-fall of insurmountable pain that only hurt more everyday when you woke up with your face pressed into what used to be her pillow.

Sometimes you wished you could just sprinkle her ashes into the words on a hike, but you couldn't even bring yourself to go out there, not alone, it just didn't seem right.

The bell above the door clanged against the doorframe as you entered the small coffee shop breathing heavy, wisps of hair plastered to your forehead, your braid slowing to a stop between protruding shoulder blades like broken bird's wings. You refused to compare yourself to an angel like Costia had one drunken night after graduation. You wished you could've told her then what you knew now. Maybe she would have believed you, even though you knew she wouldn't.

The coffee shop had two other people in it. A man in his late fifties was sitting alone, a cup of quickly cooling tea sitting untouched across from him as he sipped casually from a poorly concealed brown paper bag in his jacket. It made you sick to your stomach. You yourself were never much of a fan of alcohol, but Costia had loved wine. You could see the appeal if you tried hard enough, which you did for months after her last breath. Sometimes you swear you can taste the bitterness of vodka just as vividly as you did her kisses.

The other customer was a girl not yet eighteen, who was currently leaving, walking around you cautiously as if she viewed you as a ticking time bomb. Maybe you are.

You slowly start moving away from the door and over towards the counter with your head down staring at your feet.

"Hi, do you want your usual or something different today?" The barista asked when you stopped in front of her.

"The usual will be just fine, thanks." You mumble, peeking up through your eyelashes at her. She was blonde and had deep blue eyes, and you could easily see yourself liking her if you could find it in yourself to let Costia go, which will never happen. "And can you put some cinnamon in it too?" You tack onto your order.

The blonde's (whose name you know to be Clarke) eyes soften at your request. "Sure thing." She says; it's not as cheery as the rest of her words.

You hand her the money, before waiting patiently, swaying backwards and forwards on the balls of your feet. Clarke was taking a bit longer than usual with your coffee. You figured that maybe she had to brew a new pot of it.

"So where do you run?" Clarke asked over her shoulder. Again her voice wasn't in that high-pitched and bubbly tone.

You blink; confused. Since when does Clarke do small talk? "All over." Since when do you do small talk?

Clarke nodded, pulling out a drawer and rifling around in it for a minute before pulling out a sharpie. Her back was still turned towards you. "So, like the same route?" She asked.

You nod slowly before realizing that she can't see you. "For the most part."

"But doesn't that get a bit boring?"

"Depending on how you look at it." You find yourself saying, your eyes widening slightly at your sudden urge to talk. It had been a long time since you've last talked, like really talked. You forgot how good it could feet. Costia was the last person you could talk to about all of the things you've ever pondered. Like how you loved rain all the way up until you had to go out in it, or how often you lay awake at night wondering what it'd be like to live among the stars. Maybe you'd be able to see Costia that way.

Anyone else you had ever talked to had died while Costia was alive:

Anya, who had taken you beneath the crook of her wing after your uncle had died when you were nine, died during training over seas by an undercover spy who was really just trying to kill the General. She had been collateral damage.

Your uncle Gustus died in a public shooting while trying to save the lives of many others. To this day you know that he was meant to die in a situation like that. His heart was bigger than himself.

"Well, how do you look at it?" Clarke asked as she tossed the marker back into the drawer she had left open, and shutting it with her hip. It left you memorized.

"I consider the route as a stepping stone I must take in order to get to the more entertaining parts of the day." You say, snapping yourself out of your staring and returning your gaze towards your feet.

Clarke sat the coffee down in front of you. "And what activities grab your attention, Lexa?" She asked.

You paused, trying to decide how to answer. "I like to read." You say, licking your dry lips.

Clarke's eyes followed the movement. You didn't see this though. "What kind of books do you like to read?"

"Doesn't matter."

Clarke's brow rose at that. "Doesn't matter?" she repeated your words, posing them as a question.

You nod before asking, "What is it that you do, Clarke? When you're not working of course."

The blonde smiled at the use of your name, making you feel like you have cotton stuffed into your mouth. She tucked her chin into her palm as she leaned on to the counter with her elbow. "Do you want the real answer, or the one I tell my mother?"

You don't know why, but for some reason you smile, maybe even a chuckle a little if your memory serves you right by the sound you haven't heard in years.

There's a glint in Clarke's eye that you hadn't noticed before and it warmed the pit in your stomach. You wanted to hear both answers, but you weren't to sure about whether or not you deserved to know. After all this was the first legitimate conversation you've ever had with her, but since she was offering, and you have always been dangerously curious. "Both." You say a little louder then your usual mumble.

Her brow rises before her face breaks into a smile. "Okay, well my mother thinks that I'm here working on my PHD."

The blood drained from your face. Clarke noticed this, quickly continuing, "But I dropped out in my first year and took up art instead."

An art major; you couldn't help but think how Clarke was turning out to be the polar opposite of Costia.

You look up, your eyes landing on the cup and you smile even wider. Clarke had drawn on the cup. That's what had been taking her so long. She had written your name, and then drew sunflowers all around it, the vines wrapping around the letters. The old, and what you thought to be dead muscle in your chest fluttered.

"Do you like it?" Clarke asked, bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

You nod timidly, your smile now more of a nervous one. "It's beautiful." You say.

Clarke shrugs, "Nothing like the girl behind the name though."

You want to scoff at her lame excuse for flirting. It was such a rom-com type thing to say, but somehow Clarke made it endearing. You flush crimson, feeling your cheeks burn as you nod your thanks. You then realize what is happening, and you bunch your brows together in confusion. "Wait, why did you draw this?" You'd hate to think it was out of pity.

Clarke shrugged once more, "You always ask for cinnamon when you're sad. I figured I'd try and make you smile. I had a theory that you looked even more beautiful with one."

You suck in a breath, so Clarke had been interested in you before today? You nervously flick the lid to your coffee, "And was that theory answered?"

Clark smirks, "Why don't you ask me again tomorrow?"

You nod, even if you didn't want to know, you still needed your morning coffee. You start walking backwards, "I'll see you tomorrow then." You say as you reach the door.

Clarke smiles, still propped up next to the register. "Planning on it."

On your walk home, you pop the lid off of your coffee and take a sip, reveling in the slight spice of cinnamon on your tongue. You go to throw the lid out in the nearby trash, when you see a phone number on the inside of the lid.

Maybe you won't have to wait till tomorrow morning to get your answer.


End file.
